


Make Me Scream

by bea_flowers



Category: The Night Manager (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Blood, Blood and Violence, Choking, Dirty Talk, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Finger Sucking, Light BDSM, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:27:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29830449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_flowers/pseuds/bea_flowers
Summary: You were supposed to be getting inside the world’s most infamous illegal weapons distribution ring, but you find yourself in some hot water with the group’s leader, former MI6 asset turned weapons dealer, Jonathan Pine.
Relationships: Jonathan Pine & You, Jonathan Pine & reader, Jonathan Pine/Reader, Jonathan Pine/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Make Me Scream

The first thing you see when you open your eyes is blood—pooled in the lap of your white silk evening gown, splattered over your arms, sprinkled across the tops of your bare feet, a trail of it branching down your sternum between your breasts.

Using what little strength you have, you raise your aching head and look out the wall-length window in front of you. The black midnight sky looks like a Pollock painting, the moon and stars speckled across the blank canvas, mirrored on the calm sea that laps at the shore a hundred yards below.

Then, you see yourself reflected in the glass: black eye and split lower lip, already bruised and swelling; strapped to an ornate dining chair, bound by the wrists with duct tape. The slit up the side of your dress, once knee-length, now reaches the top of your thigh.

You scan your surroundings. You’re in a luxurious suite, fully furnished in neutral gold tones—likely a hotel room, more likely a penthouse suite, most likely the last place you remember being.

It’s fair to assume it’s the same hotel-casino where you were mingling with— _tailing, surveilling, and infiltrating, more accurately_ —some of Tradepass’s more… impressionable key players. A few untouched drinks, a few forced laughs, and probably a few hours between blacking out and coming to.

You feel the scratch of stubble and hot breath on the shell of your ear as a British voice whispers, “Good of you to join us.”

You squirm in the seat. The chair groans, its legs swaying slightly under your shifting weight. You struggle against the tape; there’s some give, but not enough to slip out of easily. The British man moves in front of you. He leans down, resting his weight on your restrained forearms, and glares at you menacingly.

Your brain is foggy and your vision blurry, recovering from whatever blow to your head that still has you reeling, but you know this face—the square jaw, the sharp chin, the narrow nose, the angular cheekbones, the heavy hanging brow, the piercing eyes. _God, those eyes_. You rack your brain, trying to place him.

 _Oh, god_. The realization pounds in your head like a hammer on a nail.

It’s him. It’s Pine. It’s—

“Jonathan Pine.”

Your words are slurred, barely intelligible—you’re not even sure if you said them aloud—but judging by the sinister twist at the corner of Pine’s lips, he must have heard you loud and clear.

Pine shucks off his blue suit jacket, making a performance of it, guaranteeing you see the holster looped around his shoulders and the gun fastened carefully within. He folds the jacket down the middle and tosses it onto the ottoman at the foot of the bed behind him. Rolling the sleeves of his white button-down shirt, he says, “I wondered how long it would take Burr to come after me.”

“I don’t know any Burr,” you lie. The false claim leaves your mouth in an unconvincing wheeze, accompanied by a sudden sharp pain in your side: _bruised ribs_.

Pine laughs in your face. “Are you trying to tell me you’re not MI6?”

“No, of course I’m not—”

He straightens and bellows, “Don’t lie to me!” Pine strikes the back of his hand across your cheek. Your head whips to the left. Blood flies from your mouth, falling in small dots on the white carpet.

The slap reinvigorates you, refocuses you. Anger overtakes fear. You run your tongue over your copper-tasting lips and tilt your head up to meet Pine’s elevated gaze. You match his steely stare, the rage burning behind your eyes teasing him, daring him: _I won’t break; do your worst_.

An almost imperceptible quirk pulls at the corner of Pine’s mouth. With his eyes still trained on yours, he says, “Gentlemen, leave us.”

You hear the swish of stiff suits and the shuffle of four feet grow fainter, then the soft click of a lock, twist of a handle, and squeal of an old hinge. The door slams, the lock clicks again, and you’re plunged into deafening silence.

Pine doesn’t say anything. He simply stares at you, waiting for you to speak first; to beg him, to bargain with him, to tell him what he wants to hear. You say nothing. You let the silence saturate the room in insolent indignance.

He exhales through his nose exasperatedly. “I know you’re MI6. I know you’ve been trying to get close to my associates for weeks.”

 _Shit_.

“Oh, yes,” he says with a lilt in his voice. “I know exactly what you’ve been doing.”

“I have no idea what—”

Pine lands another smack across your face. Your head snaps to the opposite side. Though he uses his non-dominant hand, the blow still draws blood that stains the carpet on your right in a matching constellation.

“I was you, once,” he continues, crouching in front of you. You swallow nervously and clench your jaw. “I did Angela’s bidding, risked my life for my country, all because I believed in justice.” He shakes his head. “Foolish.”

Pine runs a hand up the slit in your gown. Your skin prickles under his touch. Your muscles tense when he pinches the top of your outer thigh.

Brushing a stray hair out of your face, he says, “You did a commendable job, though. Played your part spectacularly well.” His lips ghost over yours as he adds, “But it appears you are out of options, so—”

_This is your chance._

You smack your forehead against his, startling him and knocking him back, then drive your knee up into his chin. You slam the antique chair backward, breaking it, and stamp down on each chair arm while pulling your wrists up, splitting the tape and freeing yourself.

Pine is back on his feet now. He lunges at you. You duck under his arm and evade his grasp, but not before he manages to grab the shoulder of your dress and pull, deepening the plunging neckline.

You kick him in the back of the knees, sending him down to the blood-spattered floor and crippling him long enough to grab the holstered gun dangling off his taut chest. You press the barrel into the back of his head. “Seems like you’re the one out of options now,” you say.

Pine holds his hands up in surrender, laughing breathily. “You’re good,” he says, “but you’ve forgotten something.”

You adjust your grip and press the barrel deeper into Pine’s neat curls. “What’s that?” you ask.

“I’m better.”

Pine swings his hand behind his head and wrenches the gun from you. He unloads it and flings the gun and magazine in opposite directions. You sprint away from him, but you’re weak and still disoriented from the beating you took earlier.

Pine leaps to his feet lithely, grabs you by the hair, and slams you against the wall. He spins you around and clamps his palm around your throat, giving him full control of your head and pinning you in place. He tightens his grip when you struggle against him, steadily cutting off your airflow. You drop your arms limply, knowing that fighting him is a deadly battle, one you will not win. 

Pine puts his full bodyweight against you, slotting his knee between your legs for extra measure. The elongated slit in your dress falls like a curtain around his kneecap. His leg rubs against the sensitive apex of your thighs, sending a jolt of unexpected pleasure through you. A short gasp spills off your tongue before you can stop it.

Surprise crosses Pine’s face when he realizes what he’s done—what he’s done _to you_. He grinds his leg against you again. You bite back the whimper that threatens to escape your mouth. Shame reddens your cheeks and knots your stomach. The wicked grin that spreads across Pine’s face tugs the knot tighter.

Something devilish and destructive burns in Pine’s irises as he flicks his hungry gaze from your eyes to your lips and back again. In a heartbeat, Pine’s mouth is on yours. His kiss is confident and controlling—he knows what he wants from you and he knows how to get it.

Pine dips his free hand through the ripped bodice of your gown and palms your breast. He smooths the other around the back of your thigh, hooking his hand under your knee. He hitches your leg around his hip, opening the silk curtain wider.

You tremble under him, torn between the knowledge of who this man is and what he’s doing to you. He’s terrible, treacherous, evil incarnate. But the way he moves, the way he tastes, the way he feels…

Pine licks a long stripe up the column of your throat. The single swipe of his tongue wipes away any inhibition or objection you may have had. Morality nor duty have a place in Pine’s arms.

He nips along your collar, stringing a necklace of lavender bruises around your clavicle. You knot your fingers in his hair and pull, attempting to bring his face back to yours. Your actions have no effect on his strength, eliciting only a meager grunt from him.

He grumbles disapprovingly into the chasm between your breasts. He hooks a hand around your bruised rips and squeezes, punishing you. You yelp and screw your eyes shut. Though it hurts, you revel in the sharp sting. Your jaw goes slack and a mangled moan tumbles from your tongue.

It’s that lewd sound alone that changes everything for him.

The power Pine once held over you evaporates into the soft curves of your body, into the loose strands of your hair tickling his flushed face, into the stab of your fingernails in his scalp, into the velvety skin of your inner thighs, into the heat radiating between your legs.

You are devouring him, setting his body on fire; lighting the kindling he didn’t realize was smoldering in his chest, lying in wait for the strike of your match. Every thought is banished from his mind except for the undeniable truth that there is only one thing he wants, one thing he needs: to please you.

Pine lets this truth consume him, body and soul, and presses his mouth to yours with frenzied recklessness. He struggles to sculpt his parted lips into a kiss, distracted by the overwhelming compulsion to give you everything you desire. He pants wantonly into your mouth, exchanging eager moans with each trembling breath.

The heat pulsing between your entwined bodies is electric, crackling in the air around you, cloaking you in a heavy fog of baseless desire. Instinct takes over, vocalizing your most urgent need.

“Touch me.”

A grateful groan rumbles in the back of his throat. His mouth explores every inch of your neck, ravenous as he tastes the bitter mixture of salt and blood on your skin. He sketches intricate patterns with the tip of his tongue, each shape punctuated with an open-mouthed kiss.

Pine walks his fingers leisurely down your abdomen and into the groove between your hip and pelvis. He flattens his palm and slithers his hand around your inner thigh, his thumb drifting over the lacy hem of the thin garment hugging your hips. His forefinger and ring finger glide over the creases between fabric and skin as he drags his hand up the center of your core.

He skims across the top of your waistband, his fingertips venturing just past the lacy edge before pulling back again. He moves his hand like a talented pianist, playing your body like an instrument with masterful skill. Your stomach shudders under his touch; a plucked wire vibrating beneath a wooden lid, the melody falling from your lips in a strangled mewl.

Pine dips his hand under the lace, molding his palm around the gentle arc between your legs. He uses the tip of his middle finger like a paintbrush, swirling it patiently at your dripping entrance, gathering your arousal on his fingertip. Thoughtfully, he makes his first stroke, tracing a single line up your folds. He draws lazy circles into your clit, his pressure fluctuating as he searches for the one you prefer.

You fight to keep your eyes open, determined to watch him pleasure you. His brow furrows in concentration and the corners of his pouting mouth turn down—a docile expression, revealing his desire to please you.

Pine’s eyebrow quirks seconds before he buries his fingers into you. He catches your moan in his mouth and curls his fingers against your walls. He keeps pressure on your clit with the heel of his palm while his fingers beckon you closer to your peak.

Your climax churns deep in your stomach, building and growing, crawling up your sternum, stretching across your rib cage, coating your lungs and heart in roiling heat. It radiates outward, scorching your skin, blanketing you in a layer of sweat. The sweat beads and drips down the nape of your neck, cooling your flushed skin.

He brings you closer and closer to your undoing with just the steady motion of his fingers. He adjusts the angle of his hand so he can bring the pad of his thumb to your clit. Your awareness narrows under the added pleasure. You are only cognizant of Pine’s hand nestled between your quaking legs; deaf to your voice, your moans, your hushed prayers for more, for everything he is willing to give you.

You cry out in uninhibited release, losing all sense of restraint, control, and balance while your cunt pulses around Pine’s fingers in time with your rapidly beating heart. Expletives flow freely from your mouth as you come down and collapse against the wall.

You feel a sudden emptiness when Pine removes his fingers. He locks eyes with you and grins mischievously, satisfaction plastered across his handsome face, then raises his slick fingers to his lips and sucks them clean. He hums around them luridly, relishing the taste of you.

With the pads of his wet fingers, Pine lightly tugs your bottom lip down, painting it with blood from your reopened cut. You gasp, inviting Pine’s fingers into your mouth. He wants you to share the experience of tasting the sweet arousal dripping between your legs, the unique flavor of _you_. You swirl your tongue around, then between, the two fingers.

Pine draws his fingers from your mouth slowly, scraping them against your teeth and running them over your bottom lip again. His chest rises and falls heavily as he stares at you. His eyes gleam with longing and desperation; a man starved.

He lunges, bringing his hands to either side of your face with his fingers supporting the back of your head and thumbs resting in front of your ears. He pours all his passion into the kiss, trying to show you how badly he craves you, though he knows no act or word could ever express his overpowering need.

“Tell me what you want,” he pants into your gaping mouth. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

You fist your hands in the lapel of his shirt and draw him into a crushing kiss. You trace the row of buttons down the center of his shirt. Below his belt, you rest your palm over the cock straining against his trousers. Your lips move against Pine’s as you say:

“Fuck me.”

Pine paints a sneer onto his lips with the tip of his tongue. With his eyes locked on yours, he gathers the ruined lace around your hips in his fist and pulls. He throws the shredded fabric thoughtlessly to the side and dives into you.

While branding your neck with his lips and teeth, he unbuckles his belt, unzips his trousers, and pushes them down over his ass. He snakes his hands around the back of your thighs, hoists you up against the wall, and anchors you in place. You wrap your legs around him and tangle your fingers firmly in his disheveled hair.

Taking himself in hand, Pine teases your entrance with the tip of his cock. Neither of you dares to break eye contact as you near the moment you’ve both been waiting so impatiently for.

Pine enters you with ease. You gasp at the welcome intrusion, sucking in through clenched teeth, breathing into the burn of his cock inside you. Pine combs your hair out of your face while your body adjusts to him. Once your jaw drops and your face relaxes, he steadies his grip on your ass, bends his knees slightly, and thrusts upward.

The first thrust is gentler than you expect, shallower. He attunes himself to your body, measuring his pace and strength by the intensity of your reactions. His thrusts get harsher the harder you dig your nails into the nape of his neck, and deeper the louder you moan into his ear.

The zipper down the back of your gown digs into your spine, but it’s nothing compared to the gratifying force pounding into your cunt. One of your hands darts to Pine’s upper back. You feel his tense muscles ripple under your palm through his shirt. You make quick work undoing the buttons, skipping the bottom three, ripping it open the rest of the way.

The shirt hangs open, framing his chiseled form. With greedy hands, you study the peaks and valleys carved into his lean chest, following the lines defining each toned muscle. You repeat the process over his shoulders and back, pushing the shirt off his shoulders as you do, letting it hang around his elbows. Once you’ve memorized his shape, you lay claim on his body.

Pine howls into the curve of your neck as you rake your fingernails around his shoulders and down his chest. He tightens his bruising grip on your ass and pounds into you mercilessly. You lift his chin and drag his face to yours.

He melts into your embrace, rebuilding his body around yours. He’s closer to you than ever, but you know he could be closer—and you need him closer. You break the kiss, pulling his bottom lip through your teeth, and stare into his eyes as you say:

“Get this fucking dress off of me.”

Pine licks his lips and curls them into a satisfied smirk before gripping the strap of your gown and pulling it off your shoulder. He brings his mouth to your breast—licking, nipping, kissing, pulling the sensitive bud between his teeth. You flatten your palm on the back of his head and draw him closer, encouraging him.

He repeats the process with the other strap, shoulder, and breast until the gown sits in a puddle around your waist. Pine spools your silk skirt in his fist and yanks it carelessly over your head. He drops the destroyed gown on top of the scraps of lace behind him.

He plants his palms flat on the wall, caging you in, leaning back slightly to keep himself nestled inside you, and takes a moment to study you, to study what he’s done to you: your hair mussed, your lips swollen, your chest decorated in pale tanzanite jewels of his own making. The taste of your sweat, blood, and arousal lingers on his tongue.

The ravenous look on his face sends a shiver up your spine, raising goosebumps on your skin and pebbling your nipples. Your cunt clenches around him. You pull him closer and roll your hips against him. He molds his body to yours with a rumbling moan, dropping his forehead to your shoulder.

You bring your lips to his ear, trace the tip of your tongue over its shell, and tug the lobe through your teeth.

“Now,” you whisper, “make me scream.”

That dangerous fire roars behind his eyes, setting aflame the dominant beast within. He growls through a sinister sneer, the primal sound making your heart seize in your rib cage. Everything stops—your heartbeat, your breathing, time itself—as you wait for Pine to answer your call.

The anxious part of you regrets giving such an open order. But the part of you with his cock buried deep in your cunt only regrets not speaking sooner.

Pine slams you into the wall again, the force expelling the air from your lungs, hammering into you rougher than before. The cries cascading from your lips drown out the slap of skin on skin as he hastens his pace. He burrows his head into your neck and sinks his teeth into your shoulder at random intervals. The pinch keeps you grounded in the moment, reinforcing the necessity to grant him your full attention.

Your inner thigh muscles burn with fatigue. The cut on your lip stings under Pine’s hot breath, beating down on you in uneven grunts. The bruise on your eye throbs when you squeeze your eyes shut, and your peripheral vision blurs when you dip your head back and bang the crown of your skull against the wall. You feel spent, driven to exhaustion by the powerful being rutting relentlessly into you.

Nonetheless, the pleasure mounts. Pine’s consistent thrusts urge you closer and closer to a second release. You’re just about to topple over the edge again, when Pine stalls and clamps his palm over your gaping mouth.

“Not yet.” 


End file.
